


are you tired of me yet?

by WinchesterBurger



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, Bucky Barnes & Sam Wilson Friendship, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Dialogue, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feelings Realization, Fluff and Angst, Friendship/Love, Heavy Angst, M/M, Not My Steve, Possibly Unrequited Love, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Pre-Slash, Sam Wilson is a Gift, Sam Wilson is our precious boy and I love him, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, a bit of stucky if you squint, cutting hair, no beta we die like men, recovery fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2020-03-05 12:55:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18829087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinchesterBurger/pseuds/WinchesterBurger
Summary: There’s it again, the broken tone of a man that doesn’t really have more than thirty years, the tone tainted with defeat and hurt, and in this moment it’s easy to forget that Bucky used to be a killing machine. Sam sighs and comes closer slowly, carefully, not daring to break the eye contact as if he’s approaching a wounded wild animal.The metaphor is quite fitting, anyway.





	are you tired of me yet?

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was my therapy after Endgame and my darling really loves these boys in fluff, so I hold no regrets. Also I don't accept Steve's canon in Endgame and he will stay forever in my heart as the guy who'd do anything for his best friend; his piece in the new movie was lazy writing and we all know it. 
> 
> Sorry for all mistakes, english isn't my native language, but all remarks are welcome!
> 
> The title from "this is home" from Cavetown.

Sam wonders if they’re supposed to celebrate in a particular way, since they’re superheroes and stuff. Maybe they should throw a party, drink champagne and eat some expensive-ass sushi, everyone in suits and dresses, loud music bumping through their veins. Maybe they all should smile and laugh, be as happy as everyone else this evening. The thing is over, they’re all safe and sound. The dead are honored, the alive welcomed. It’s their time to rest, in the end.    
  
Then why is it so hard to breathe? Why can’t Sam just relax and let peace sink into his bones? He guesses not only he feels this way, judging by the tired faces of his friends, filled with sorrow and regret. Some of them look better than the others, some of them smile reassuringly when he passes them on his way to the porch and he can’t help but return the grimace, trying to make it the happiest smile he has. It’s hard to straighten his back, some invisible burden weighing it down, and it makes him so, so exhausted.    
  
The cottage they rented for a few days is surrounded by a thick forest and there’s a large lake at the back. The porch is turned to its quiet surface and it’s not as empty as Sam would like it to when he comes out of the back door, a tray with French fries and a plate of brownie pieces in his hands. Bucky is sitting on the wooden bench with his back pressed to the wall, long hair tied in a bun and a thick hoodie hugging his muscles, and he looks as lost as Sam feels.   
  
“There you are. Rocket was kinda disappointed you disappeared so soon, he likes your arm too much for his own good,” he tries to joke, catching Bucky’s hazy gaze. White Wolf smiles weakly and shrugs, eyeing Sam as he comes to sit next to him and places the tray on a low wooden table.    
  
“It was getting too airless for me. You know, too many people.”   
  
Sam nods, letting silence embrace them. It’s not awkward at all; there’s frogs’ chorus coming from the lake, broken by a tranquil splash from time to time, crickets’ solos accompanying and occasional wild noises coming from the dark curtain of trees. It’s peaceful and Sam almost feels wrong when he opens his mouth.   
  
“Did you know he would do it?”   
  
He doesn’t explain who he’s talking about, but he knows it’s not necessary. Bucky visibly slouches at the question.   
  
“I didn’t exactly know, but I felt that something was going on. He had that weird sparkle in his eyes as if he had already made a decision. I couldn’t stop him; no one really could,” he stops and reaches for a fry with his healthy arm, and Sam notices it’s shaking. He doesn’t say a word.   
  
“I guess he deserved a rest, even if there wasn’t any coming back after that,” Bucky continues and throws the fry into his mouth.    
  
“But you don’t like it,” Sam says, cautiously watching Bucky’s face. He seems to be trying to look casually, yet his mask breaks in a few places and he stumbles on his breath. His metal hand fists into a ball on his laps.    
  
“It doesn’t matter. It never did.”   
  
His voice is painfully weak and Sam feels like he’s prying too hard, like Bucky is going to break if he presses a little more. He doesn’t know what was going on between Steve and Bucky, or if Steve even knew how much his decision would mirror itself on Barnes, but he feels furious flames building up inside of him. He doesn’t want to be angry at Steve and can’t truly be, and he feels so powerless at the moment. He wants to help, he really does, but it’s not his job to do. Sam doesn’t even know if he’s able to.    
  
“He used to tell me that I was worth of love despite all the wrong I did back in Hydra. That it wasn’t me, that I was the most deserving person he knew. I had a hard time trying to believe him and I think I never truly did, but I tried my best to change for the world, for our friends. For him. I guess it just wasn’t enough to keep him here,” he cuts off and his breath falters with something Sam can’t put a finger on. “ _ I _ wasn’t enough.”   
  
If Sam is feeling anything at the moment, it’s shock. He opens his mouth and closes it, and again and again, like a dying fish, not a single sentence coming out. When his mind finally turns on, it produces the lamest thing it can.   
  
“You can’t blame yourself for what happened. He wasn’t thinking about you back then,” and Sam winces. Bucky drops his gaze to his hands fisted on his laps, his shoulders trembling. Sam feels panic gathering in the air, so he does the only thing he can think of and reaches out to put his hand on Bucky’s metal wrist. It does its job, catching the man’s attention. “You know what I meant,” Sam tries one more time stubbornly, dark eyes locked with Bucky’s green ones. “He chose to leave, but not because of you. You didn’t do anything wrong,  _ hell _ , you probably did so much good that he thought you’ll be okay.”   
  
Barnes snorts and only now Sam takes note of the wetness on his face. “I won’t. I’m no good for anyone now, I have no reason to try. He left and took all the faith the world had in me with him. It’s over.”   
  
“It’s  _ not _ and you know it. He wasn’t the only one believing in you,” Wilson hisses the last sentence out, wrapping his fingers around Bucky’s wrist to keep him in place and watching  surprise paint itself all over the other man’s face. “Natasha  _ did _ believe in you as much as him, she never let it show though. That’s how she was. She was just like you, broken by others and hurting every day, but she tried, too. Just like you,” he repeats and nods with each of the last three words.   
  
“You think T’Challa would let you stay in Wakanda if he didn’t believe in you? Would Shuri help you heal, find peace if she didn’t? Do you think any of the Avengers would let you fight with them, hand in hand, if they didn’t see the good in you? You are enough, Bucky. You are.”   
  
Bucky parts his lips, drawing in a shaky breath. Silence sweeps over them as White Wolf searches Sam’s face, probably looking for any sign of falseness. The dark-skinned man doesn’t blame him; it must be pretty hard to believe the things he said after years and years of failure, after all the mental breakdowns of the day. It would take months to heal former Winter Soldier, but Sam hopes that it’s a good start and he didn’t fuck everything up at the very beginning.    
  
Just when the moment stretches and Sam starts to think that they’re good, that Bucky will maybe turn around and continue eating the fries in calmness, the other man gently slips his hand out of Sam’s grasp and stands up. Wilson follows the movements with his gaze as Bucky stretches his arms and back, the dose of serum apparently not enough to completely prevent his joints from aging.   
  
“I’m going to bed,” Bucky murmurs and doesn’t wait for a response, fleeing the scene as fast as he can, which is, to be honest, a quite impressive speed. Sam sighs quietly, reaching out for the plate and shoving two pieces of brownie into his mouth at the same time. He’s tired and angry; there’s some kind of emptiness spreading through his insides and he really just wants to fall asleep and not wake up for another year or two. 

  
  


As it turns out, it’s hard to fall asleep this night.   
  
Sam keeps rolling around on his bed for what seems like three hours before he finally gives up and leaves his room. It’s well past four in the morning, the Sun is slowly making its way onto the sky and the cottage is blissfully quiet when the man goes downstairs to grab himself a drink. There’s only a jar of instant coffee and a box of tea in a cabinet above the cooker, but he’s still sane enough to choose the latter. In the end, it’s still fucking nighttime.   
  
The kettle whistles softly after a while, and so Sam pours some water into a random mug and drops a teabag in it, and that’s exactly when he hears an alien shuffling in the bathroom. He doesn’t recall anyone going downstairs while he was already here, which means the person occupying the bath has been there for over twenty minutes. It looks like not only Sam can’t put his mind to rest.    
  
He puts the kettle away and makes a beeline to the bathroom, cautiously placing his feet on the wooden floor as to keep quiet. The door is locked, but he sees a strip of light coming from under it, creaking of old-fashioned drawers audible from the inside. The man hesitates for a second before knocking.   
  
“It’s Sam,” he says softly, almost whispers, rubbing his left eye with a fist. It doesn’t stop the itching, only makes it worse.    
  
“I’m okay,” Bucky replies after a moment; something drops to the floor, clinking, and a smooth Russian curse follows.    
  
Sam frowns. He opens his mouth, almost,  _ almost _ asking Bucky if he needs help, but thinks better of it. He already knows the answer. “I made tea. Do you want some?”   
  
A bouquet of Russian profanities fills the air, but Sam doesn’t press. He has time.   
  
“No, thanks.” A beat of silence. “What are you doing here? Thought you were tired.”   
  
“I could ask you the same.”   
  
A sigh, a little bit of grumbling and the lock comes open with a click. Sam grasps the doorknob, twisting it and pulling, suddenly blinded by bright LED light. It passes a few moments later and he sees Bucky standing in front of a marble washbasin, slouching, a huge shining mirror hung on the wall and the man’s black T-shirt laying on the edge of the bathtub.    
  
When Sam eyes him involuntarily, his gaze sweeping over Bucky’s muscular torso adorned with more scars than Sam has ever seen on a single body, he takes note of something shiny wrapped in his metal hand. It’s a pair of scissors, looking dangerously sharp and disquieting against the black panels building up Bucky’s arm.    
  
“Do I wanna know what you were doing, Barnes?” He can’t help but ask and Bucky snorts bitterly, yet there’s a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Sam considers it his small victory.    
  
“Tried cutting my hair, you pigeon,” the man says, the smile not really dropping, but somehow getting more transparent. Bucky sways a little on his feet, ducking his head. “I just… Don’t really trust my hands to do it. I can’t.”   
  
There’s it again, the broken tone of a man that doesn’t really have more than thirty years, the tone tainted with defeat and hurt, and in this moment it’s easy to forget that Bucky used to be a killing machine. Sam sighs and comes closer slowly, carefully, not daring to break the eye contact as if he’s approaching a wounded wild animal.    
  
The metaphor is quite fitting, anyway.   
  
“Let me do it for you,” he starts before Bucky can open his mouth; before he can panic. White Wolf’s eyes widen for a moment, and a beat of silence passes between them, their heartbeats the only sounds filling their ears. Sam’s almost sure Bucky can hear his.   
  
A second before Sam decides to step back and give the man some space, Barnes thrusts the scissors into his hands without a word. He backs away and sits down on the edge of the bathtub, pale eyes attentively never leaving Sam’s. The other man raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t speak, doesn’t dare to, and approaches Bucky, standing between his opened legs. It’s quite a success here, too – Bucky wouldn’t let Sam that close and in this position if he didn’t already trusted him.    
  
“Alright,” he mutters, toying with the scissors in his right hand and eyeing the man’s hair. “How do you want it?”   
  
“Just short.”   
  
Sam shrugs with a half smile. “Simple and smart, nothing fancy. I get where you’re going.”   
  
It does its job: Bucky smiles with amusement and it finally does look like a spontaneous reaction. He glances at Sam’s neatly shaved head and mumbles something that sounds like  _ yeah _ with an additional dose of humor, and really, Sam can’t be mad even if he wants.   
  
Bucky stiffens as soon as Sam gets the scissors close to his face, his eyes suddenly cold and careful, posture tense. Wilson bites his lower lip.   
  
“I’m not gonna hurt you, Buck,” he says softly, almost whispers. “I’m only going to chop off that flock of hair that hangs just in your face, okay? Will it be alright?”   
  
Barnes nods and so Sam catches the said flock between the arms of the scissors and closes them, the whole process slow. It falls to the floor, followed by Bucky’s gaze. His eyes soften a bit at the sight.   
  
“Good?”   
  
“Good.” Bucky’s response is still weak, but it lacks tiredness that was here just minutes earlier, tiredness that never really leaves him. Sam sends him an encouraging smile that gets received with a soft upward tug of Bucky’s lips.   
  
The next strand joins the one on the floor, and another, and another. Soon, there’s a dark plush–looking pile between Bucky’s feet that the man keeps his shiny eyes on, fists clenched and left leg slightly stamping on the clean tiles. Sam can’t tear his gaze of off White Wolf’s hair, now much shorter and fluffier, and making him look like an entirely different person.    
  
He looks… better than Sam expected. It’s dangerous and makes him feel like fainting, heart missing a beat when Bucky looks up at him from under his long eyelashes and sends him a smile that seems to reach far beyond his eyes. He’s mesmerizing, younger, and damn, was his jawline always that sharp?   
  
Sam’s tongue is caught somewhere in his mouth and it takes him a prolonging moment before he speaks, yet finally he succeeds. “It’s crooked as all hell, but it could be worse. It _ would _ be if you’d done it.”   
  
“Hey! I’ve cut Steve’s hair more times than one could count, I’m a professional,” Bucky huffs with mock resentment. His smile turns more playful and he stands up, stepping in front of the mirror to cast a look at himself. Luckily, the content grimace doesn’t leave his face; not even when he brings his metal hand to ruffle his hair.   
  
“I didn’t wear my hair this short since ‘40, probably,” he mutters, longing hidden behind his green eyes. He glances back at Sam and the black-skinned man swears there’s some wetness gathered on White Wolf’s lashes, however it’s gone as soon as it appeared. “Thanks.”   
  
“At your service,” he says and lets a gentle smile paint his lips and his eyes, lets his warm stare sweep over the other man. He hopes that Bucky’s starting to see it; that he’s enough.   
  
Bucky’s gaze drops to the floor. The corners of his lips somehow tug even higher and all the amusement showing on his face makes him look so, so much younger than Sam himself.    
  
“We should clean, you know. Wanda’s going to kill us if we leave such a mess in the main bathroom.”   
  
Wilson waves his hand. “We’ll do it later.” He steps around the pile of hair and makes his way to the door where he looks over his shoulder at the man still standing in the center of the room, eyes glued to him. “What would you say about some pancakes?”   
  
Bucky almost, almost chuckles and it’s the most beautiful sight Sam has ever seen.    
  
“Haven’t eaten them in years. I hope you’re a decent cook.”   
  
“I’m the best,” he jokes and steps out of the bathroom, and really, it’s not that bad in the end.   
  
To be honest, he couldn’t have been better. 

**Author's Note:**

> come yell at me [@someonefromthere](https://someonefromthere.tumblr.com/)  
> you can also browse through my personal mess [@winchester-burger](https://winchester-burger.tumblr.com)  
> where i reblog all the fandom bullshit


End file.
